


NickyFish's Mardi Gras

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-03-15
Updated: 2000-03-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A breath apart and seas away.





	NickyFish's Mardi Gras

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

NickyFish's Mardi Gras by Mik

TITLE: NickyFish's Mardi Gras  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/K. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: A breath apart and seas away.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Krycek Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.

Author's note: Nicky, never give up on anything, especially love. And for Ste. Josan ... pax. And Susan, who should be called Scotty. Thanks for getting the warp drives in action.

If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

NICKYFISH'S MARDI GRAS  
by Mik

SHROVE TUESDAY

Usually, I prefer to work in crowds. Easy to slip in, move around, strike, slip away unnoticed.

This crowd frustrates and angers me. I want to rise up and banish every one of these revelers. I want to obliterate them, send them screaming to their homes, roaring like a beast that keeps them under their beds, where, if they knew what I knew, they would already be. I want to darken the lights, push back the clock, turn Bourbon Street into a sleepy street haunted by jazz, laughter and the litter of the day.

But this is Mardi Gras and the place is alive with the joyous, the curious, the bizarre, the brave and the tourists who pay to view the whole pageant and record it on their camcorders for the folks back home. I despise them all. The laughter is too loud. The jazz has a tinny ring to it. Everything must be larger than life ... the women ... the masks ... the costumes ... the bright beads and candy tossed out to stretched out, grasping fingers.

The throng pushes to and fro like the tides on a stormy sea each time a handful of cheap trinkets sails through the air. I've had to anchor myself at a street lamp to maintain my perch and watch the door of the hotel across the street.

He's there. I confirmed it. He checked in. He came. And I know why. The reason makes a smug little smile turn up around my hungry mouth. A carefully worded article, planted in the Post, about a rabbit shaped float in this Madness Gras, would bring my bunny farmer in search of his mate.

It worked. He came.

In a few short hours ... I'll find him, fight the undertow of this human tidal wave, and lost in the insanity and revelry of this night, take him in my arms. Claim him for a few moments, time stolen from his quest and my duty. I will love him with my body as I've been loving him with my heart and soul. Make him cry out in passion louder than the laughter on the streets, make him sing like a saxophone on a hot June night.

The colors and sounds only distract me now. But later I will paint his body with all the colors of passion and possession. I'll drape his body with brightly colored beads of sweat and lick the sweetness of his desire from his lips. No cheap trinket he. He will be my prize. My last, wild indulgence before a season of Lent, forty days, forty weeks, forty years without him.

I'm getting out. I'm going. I'll get so far away from Them, they'll never find me. But when I go, I leave the tiny crystal shards of what was once a pure love behind, like litter on Bourbon Street, the morning after.

But I mean to leave with his kiss pressed against my skin like ash from the thumb of a priest. Go now, and sin no more.

ASH WEDNESDAY

Empty street. Grey light. Mournful tolling of bells calling people away from their excesses to the duty and supplication of Lent. I've been standing on this corner for hours, watching the crowds thin, the music fade, the last bits of confetti flutter to the damp, cobbled ground.

Now and then I see a woman, head draped with a shawl or scarf, slip from an apartment and shuffle off toward the bells. But the devoted and I are the only inhabitants of this grey world between festival and fasting.

What the hell am I doing here? I believed he would be here. I felt something akin to conviction that he would be here, waiting for me. I spent hours spinning wild scenarios of hot, animal sex. And an equal number of hours fantasizing about beating the crap out of him for leaving me. Right now, I'm leaning toward the latter.

Across the street is an alleyway. One not unlike the alley where he first made his intentions known. Throughout the night I've pictured us huddled there, groping one another in blind need, heedless of the merrymaking just a few feet away from us. I've also had the visceral satisfaction of smashing his too perfect face, leaving bruises as purple as Lenten cloth.

I thought, one moment, last night that I saw him. Perched on the pedestal of a street lamp. Eye contact. A surge of pleasure that went from my heart to my balls and back again. I stepped off the curb, trying to maintain eye contact. A wad of cheap gold beads hit my cheekbone and I twisted away, blinking from the unexpected sting. As I did, the crowd began to move. Rushing forward, like a broken dam. I had to scramble up onto the curb, blindly, or be swept away. When I looked again, he was gone. Or perhaps, it was a ghost, an illusion, and he was never there. A sting of a different kind, more painful, more persistent.

The church bells begin to strike again. I am reminded of all the Christian symbolism of this day. The beginning of repentance, forty days of denying oneself pleasures while seeking redemption. Very well, I give up ... him.

Easy enough to do ... he already gave up me.

\- THE END -


End file.
